


wild women don't get the blues

by dawngrove



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Gen, Loss of Faith, Sad elf doesn't know how to handle anything anymore, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 22:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13017093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawngrove/pseuds/dawngrove
Summary: When it becomes time to take the first steps into the city, though, with its impressive stone walls and the faint scent of ash, Sakareia falters. A step back into the world that left her corrupted in Her eyes. It is a necessity, though. There are people that rely on her, or at least do so for an hour in their lives. Life persists around her, without regard for her woes. She, too, must move along with them.---Life after Sakareia's world ends.





	wild women don't get the blues

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work inspired by the ongoing RP between myself and a few friends; currently, my sad little elf is not having a fun time, and I thought I would expand on it a bit. I make myself sad.
> 
> All the characters mentioned belong to either myself or my friends, and the world they live in belong to Blizzard. Here's hoping this may be enjoyed.

It begins in a garden.

More specifically, it begins at the center of it. What was once a tended grove, nestled into the corners of the marshes, is now an overgrown eden. Rushes and reeds loom over Sakareia’s prone form, reaching upward from the newly-broken ground. They stretch out all around her, covering the places where her she once rested. Where her family once rested.

Her blood is still dark against the nearest grass, dried a dark brown on its edges. She doesn’t know how long she’s been unconscious.

With some struggle, the elf pushes herself up to sit. Her body protests, drained to the last reserves of its energy. She wonders if she harmed her ribs, or if they ached as a result of her violent coughing. Rarely had Sakareia stretched herself to such lengths—only once, actually, in recent memory. Days spent in a dark cell, under the cruel watch of an elf long since lost to the world. Days spent denying herself food in an attempt to starve, rather than plead. Days spent wondering if this was where she would die.

The druid shoves herself to her feet, violently. It was a poor choice, and she stumbles, falling down onto her knees. They press the grass down, already crushed only hours (days?) into its newly-found life. Giving herself another moment, she moves with more gentleness. Rises to her feet without the same angry energy, and finally Sakareia is standing without fear of toppling over. Walking is another obstacle, but one she will conquer in a few moments.

Her eyes scan the grove, a mournful exhale leaving her. At the very least, she has left the grove with something suitable for a funeral, the way her elders would have. They would have nodded their heads in approval, signaling that she had raised the grass to just the right heights, and left no question that she had done her best. The mothers would have let the cubs stand at the edges, begging to run forward and use their budding magic to grow a patch of lilies near her feet. Her littermates would have been by her side, smiling tiredly as they changed the world around them, even if it was only such a small part of it.

Sakareia has no family anymore. They’re somewhere in the ground, retaken by nature. The Mother-Moon will keep watch over them, she thinks, and slowly she moves to curl up under an inviting tree. This wasn’t the one she preferred as a cub, but it will suffice for now.

—————

She ends up staying for what she believes is a week. Nurturing the garden, taming it to how she thought it would look at the end of her days. It becomes vibrant under her magic, taking shape as she wills it. Though this was never her true talent, Sakareia feels this is better than the one she left for her own den. The elf forsakes food save for the bare minimum, frogs and small mammals caught under her watchful paws. In normal circumstances, she would fast properly, having her grove to rely upon. And yet, such a thing has been taken from her.  
Her thoughts, when not suppressed by her own tiredness, drift to the moment she became aware of everything. The truth in this world, her world, the world she had made with her friend. His voice had been too cold, too distant. He had spoken as if they were nothing more than mice cornered by a predator. As if there was a certain pride to culling them, leaving her the single survivor. The singular bearer of her home. Whenever she thinks too hard on it, Sakareia finds herself retching as she had before. Only bile comes up, bitter and burning against her throat, but it serves as a reminder. Still, she cannot stop the fondness from creeping into her thoughts. 

Shame overwhelms her. It was surely a sign from the Mother-Moon; how could it not be? The druid refused to believe that the world could turn out like this on its own. Surely it was Her guiding hand, moving the two elves to meet. Guiding one to kill for money and to cope, the other to stumble into his presence with nothing but curiosity and kindness. It was a punishment for leaving her home, a place that had kept her safe for centuries on end as she grew. Who was she but a prideful cub, to declare that she, Sakareia Dawngrove, could find joy in the world where her elders claimed corruption? Did she think herself as capable as those who had seen the evils before they had retreated, found the Mother-Moon’s light to bathe and cleanse themselves in? It feels as if She is chiding her quietly in each moment, gently pointing out her foolishness in each sprout of life she brings into the world. 

Sleep is a welcome friend. Her body, heavy with exhaustion, leaves no room for her thoughts to spill over into dreams. It takes the edge off of her hunger as well, leaving her a brief respite from what has happened. When she awakens one day and finds her thoughts drifting towards her friend once more, Sakareia takes a final look at her grove and deems it suitable enough. One day, she will return to tend such things, but for now she cannot bear it anymore.

—————

Returning to Ironforge takes her little time. The path to and from feels familiar now—it was her third time taking it, after all, and she has always loved travel. Beyond that, there is a simpleness to being a cat that Sakareia revels in. A cat has no time to worry; it worries only about finding nutrients and shelter when necessary, and travelling otherwise towards home. Sorrow still haunts her, lingering in each pawstep that the druid takes, but that too is ignore well enough. There are no words to speak without a mouth, after all. 

When it becomes time to take the first steps into the city, though, with its impressive stone walls and the faint scent of ash, Sakareia falters. A step back into the world that left her corrupted in Her eyes. It is a necessity, though. There are people that rely on her, or at least do so for an hour in their lives. Life persists around her, without regard for her woes. She, too, must move along with them. 

Disappointment grips her as she enters her den. There is a thin coating of dust over the furniture, and it looks as it did when she had set off. Even though she had requested Thalin return to Ironforge, it appeared he had not—or, he had avoided the den completely. Rejecting her request even after everything. Her scarred hand clenches into a tight fist, and she goes about brushing off the bed to lay down upon. On instinct moreso than a desire to, the elf peels off her boots and gloves. Sitting up long enough to remove the rest of her clothing, Sakareia basks in the comforts of the mattress for a moment before she remembers that it was this very luxury that had, with each moment spent within it, pushed her towards her losses. And, with a sigh, she stands, considering where to rest. In the end, she settles on the bear-pelt rug; even the grass had a certain softness to it, and it had once been apart of nature. There was no reason that this would damn her more than the outdoors. 

As she prepares to rest, the druid becomes aware of a light weight against her chest. One hand pulls the amulet into her sight, and impulsively tightens around it. She could rip it off, toss it out into the lava that fueled the great forges. It would be for the best, to remove another reminder of him. 

And yet, Sakareia cannot bring herself to do such a thing. Sighing quietly, it falls against her skin once more, and she lets sleep claim her before the guilt.

—————

Brunheana’s den is always warm and welcoming, in the same way the nests in her grove once were. The dwarven mother reminds her of the same elves that had collectively raised her, or perhaps it is merely the fact that she has a cub of her own, tucked away into a cradle, that rouses such memories.

It is always bittersweet, to see Gruraic curled up. The delivery had gone well enough, Brunheana championing through it. She never let the pain get the best of her, always proclaiming that she had faced worse on the battlefield. Sakareia had nodded good-naturedly, smiling gently and saying that it was fine to admit such a thing. But even that dragged her thoughts to the Wetlands, the familiar funeral-garden that rested underneath a copse of willow trees. The same small, pitiful thing that she had passed early into the world. It never once showed the same spark of life that Gruraic did, with his loud cries as Brunheana finally birthed him. 

The cub had never even had a name, Sakareia thinks faintly. Thandris had taken even that small choice away.

Nevertheless, the elf makes time to visit on her return. Brings a small basket of flowers and herbs, hunted down from the edges of Dun Morogh to aid the dwarf’s strength. Brunheana welcomes her with open arms, questioning her brief absence. Sakareia tells her it was the hunting that had pulled her away, despite no pelt or meat to show as a gift. She is grateful that no questions are pressed onto her. 

Even so, the glances shot her way don’t pass her by. The worry that fills Brunheana’s words whenever she makes a small comment about the alleged hunting trip. The way she lets Sakareia linger for longer than a small, casual visit might allow, hand resting firmly on the cradle.

However, even the elf realizes she cannot stay forever in this small sanctuary. As she moves towards the door, though, the paladin’s hand catches on her elbow. Turning on her heels, Sakareia peers down with a tilted head. “May I be being one to do something for you before I am leaving?”

Accented Common greets her in return, Brunheana looking up at her through critical eyes. “Lass, I already know you’re hidin’ something. Call it a mother’s intuition, but somethin’ has happened to you out there. I know we’ve hardly been meetin’, but I don’t want to see you hurt over this. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it with me?” The dwarf nods towards her table, where two cups rest empty. “I’ve got plenty of time for you.”

For one long moment, all she can do is stare. To speak about what she has been through the past few weeks—perhaps longer, the months spent with the lingering phantom of Thandris—is something she has never done. She has never spoken about the tiredness that weighs down upon her shoulders, the images of her grove that leave her curled up for hours on end in an attempt to forget and remember in equal measures. How could she? How would anyone understand her, the sadness that shouldn’t exist and yet fills her belly full? 

Smiling, Sakareia shakes her head lightly. “I am thanking you, but I cannot be being one to do such a thing.”

—————

Weeks after she has returned home, when her body has adjusted to the rhythms of before, Sakareia finds herself looking down at a small mirror. It was something she had purchased on a whim before, the gentle shine of its framing catching her eye. Some part of her had the time had crowed vanity, the Mother-Moon’s eyes narrowed slightly as She looked down upon the druid with faint disappointment.

Despite this, the mirror had ended up tucked away in her den, Sakareia’s growing comfort in the world around her soothing such worries. And now, it was held delicately in her hands, reflecting back an exact image of the druid. Two eyes with emerald green wrapped around them, high cheekbones with more fat around them than when she had lived in the wilds, a sharp and unrelenting nose. Her mouth is parted slightly, as if to speak. Sakareia silently begs the reflection to say something, needing to hear a voice that would gift onto her truisms and help her return to who she once was. Of course, nothing comes of it. The elf finds herself preferring the distorted images of water over this clarity.

For a long while, all she can do is sit and stare. She does not remembering looking like this before; even with new scars, small ones on the edges of her shoulders and throat and chin, there is an unfamiliarity that unsettles her. Something is horribly wrong with the mirror, or perhaps her, and Sakareia finds herself loathing both. Her legs curl up against her chest, her grip tightens around the mirror, and she continues to watch herself breathe.

Hours pass. Her image refuses to speak, simply stares back with what she believes is contempt. Perhaps those truly weren’t her eyes, but rather someone else’s. The Mother-Moon’s, perhaps, a disappointed mother scolding a cub for her misdoings. You poor thing, Sakareia can imagine Her saying, I have tried to guide you as gently as I could. I have tried to help you stay on the path to true joy in this world, and yet you have wandered. What has gone wrong with you, my child? Have I not shown you happiness while you have walked this world?

However, it is Sakareia’s voice that thinks these things, not the Mother-Moon’s, and epiphany strikes. She does not feel the same warmth that Her light once provided. The druid is fully hollow, no trace of anything but her own thoughts within her. The Mother-Moon has forsaken her, finally, or perhaps she had long ago. Perhaps once the first doubts had creeped into the druid, it had already been too late to return.

In a fit of anger, she tosses the mirror against the ground. It shatters quietly, glass shards scattering against the stone floor. Her legs uncurl and come down upon them, and she cares not that her feet are cut open. Slowly, as if in a dream, Sakareia makes her way to her bed and lays there. Her blood, warm and sticky, oozes down onto the blankets, and she makes no attempt to heal such a thing. It would serve as a memory of this moment, her being truly left alone in this world, the same way her wrist was a memory of pride. She is detached from the pain, anyways, and blood may always be washed out.

She sleeps, a dreamless thing. Sakareia finds she prefers this to the dreams of being killed alongside her family, in a cell, dying alone in the marshes. Perhaps tomorrow she will find herself able to believe once more.


End file.
